


as far as i could get

by narquelie



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe, F/M, Implied/Referenced Incest, Multiverse, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 13:30:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4061794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narquelie/pseuds/narquelie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>There is no heartbeat. Only static.</i> The five deaths of Wanda Maximoff.</p><p>[multiverse]</p>
            </blockquote>





	as far as i could get

History repeats itself. Somebody says this.  
History throws its shadow over the beginning, over the desktop,  
over the sock drawer with its socks, its hidden letters.  
History is a little man in a brown suit  
trying to define a room he is outside of.  
I know history. There are many names in history  
but none of them are ours.

 

Richard Siken, _Little Beast_

 

 

 

 

****

**1.**

 

Someone screams. It takes Wanda a while to realize that it's her.

The moment she stops, the world descends into silence, and she watches as the ground shakes, as the machines fall around her; she lies on her hands and knees in the rubble, deafened, futilely searching for a heartbeat. But it's not there. Her heart is gone. All is silent.

 _There is no heartbeat._ Only static.

She picks herself up, moves without conscious thought, the gaping hole inside her growing with each second, swallowing the rest of her organs until all that's left of her is air and emptiness and numbing pain.

“ _If you stay here, you'll die.”_

“I just did,” she says, a dead girl walking, scarlet flames curling around her fingers.

She crushes Ultron's heart in her hand and it doesn't make her own grow back, it doesn't fill her up. She resigns herself to the fact that she's gone in all but her body and there is nothing that can change it; they fall, and Wanda closes her eyes.

Someone catches her.

(There is no heartbeat. The eyes she sees when she wakes are not blue. She screams.)

 

 

 

 

 **2.**

 

The image burns behind her eyelids, vivid and terrible, and there's a metallic taste at the back of her throat as if she'd screamed herself raw. She can't go back to sleep. She stares at the dying embers of the fireplace, watches as the long shadows climb up the walls. Silence rings in her ears. She puts her hands on the swell of her stomach and takes a deep, steadying breath, trying to force down the raising panic. _They're safe here, no one can hurt them, not anymore._ She made that happen – she made sure it became true – and yet that dream, that scene, the body hitting the ground – it feels too much like a fresh memory to be just a figment of imagination. There are no coincidences, _not for witches_ , and the thought makes her throat tighten. Her eyes start to burn.

_It's not true._

There is a swish of wind, a familiar, welcome sound. Pietro kneels by her bed.

“What is it?” he asks, his eyes frantically darting around the room, her discomfort contagious. He's still wearing his uniform – it smells of smoke, and wind, and _blood_ – Wanda catches a splatter of red beneath his left ear and for a second, the world stops.

He catches her hand as she raises it to his face, and presses her fingers to his lips. “It's not mine,” he says, warm breath ghosting over her skin, “the blood. We had to remind Doom's men not to overstep their boundaries, that's all. It's not mine.”

Wanda nods reluctantly. She traces the outline of his lips with the tips of her fingers, admits the shape, the texture, the softness to her memory, just in case.

“I dreamed that you died,” she whispers, and she can feel him inhale sharply against her skin. “It felt so real and you weren't here – ”, the images are coming back – blood and rubble and white hair covered in dust –

The mattress dips down as Pietro climbs into bed. “Hush,” he says, “it's okay, I'm fine – and I'm here now – I'm not going anywhere, love.” He's warm and steady, and _alive_ , his arms curling around her body and legs tangling with hers. They meld together; one heartbeat, one breath. He presses his face into Wanda's hair, and settles his hand on the curve of her belly.

“It's probably just hormones,” he whispers into her ear, and she huffs in disdain. Pietro smirks, victorious. “You worry too much, sister – and that's understandable, at this time,” she elbows him halfheartedly in the chest, which he ignores completely, “but you and I, and our family – we're as safe as one could be. Nothing can touch us.”

He presses his lips to her neck, and she sighs, contented. “And I'm never going to leave you, Wanda. I swear.”

She believes him, for a moment, for a year, for three more, until the dream collapses around them, and –

she floats above ground, and _burns;_

her children,

Pietro,

their family,

all gone –

(no more mutants),

– and she's gone, too.

 

 

 

 

**3.**

 

“Whatever happens I will always – ”

Snow is falling. It freezes her to the bone, draws away every last bit of warmth from her body, until she can't even feel her brother's arms around her. Pietro says something, muffled words she can't comprehend while he clutches her to his chest, trying to stop the bleeding, commanding her to stay awake –

but she can't.

Her life doesn't flash before her eyes – there's just an abstract longing for home, for the Balkan mountains and valleys, for a time before their powers had manifested, for a time when they had been safe, and loved, and free.

It's comforting, in a selfish way, that the bullet hit _her_ , not Pietro – that she's not forced to live her life without him. She imagines it would be cold and empty, like a lifetime of lying on the pavement bleeding out, with nothing to ease the misery. She would go on, of course, continue the struggle to do the right thing, undo the damage they've caused, help the mutantkind –

But Pietro won't do that. He's not like her. Not like their father.

He'll take his pain and his suffering and use it to destroy himself, not turn it into a weapon. He will blame himself, and he will break, and he will become a mad, rabid creature, made of fragmented pieces of what he used to be. Pietro Lehnsherr will die with her, in this place, no matter which one of them is pierced with the bullet.

Wanda goes numb, her body enveloped in coldness, and Pietro's voice comes to her from afar, as if she's underwater. The current is pulling her down, away from her love, away from the light. She wants to beg him not to give up on his life, but her tongue is no longer her own.

“– love you,” that's what he was going to say, and before her vision darkens Wanda thinks,

_how awful, that._

 

 

 

 

 **4.**

 

She falls to her knees in the midst of rubble and sizzling electricity. Snowflakes melt on the singed Sentinels. Wanda's lips taste like blood. She wipes her nose with shaking fingers, and they come back stained red.

Pietro collapses next to her, his breathing ragged and shallow, as if the mere activity brings him pain. He tilts his head back and looks at the sky. More Sentinels are coming.

“They're like vultures,” he rasps, “looking for fresh meat.”

It's an apt comparison – they're barely anything more than carrion now. She can see blood oozing steadily through her brother's yellow uniform, knows his lungs are burning with every shattering breath he takes. Feels the same pain searing beneath her skin. All that is left of her power is the dying ember inside her soul that urges her body to keep fighting, to stay alive. But even that is barely anything anymore.

“I need to take you back to father,” Pietro says, his scraped hand finding her own. Wanda shakes her head.

“There's nowhere to run anymore, Pietro.” Her voice is like sandpaper, rough and cracking and it hurts so damn much her eyes water.

Pietro's fingers tighten around hers, and he feels it, too.

That they're dying.

That there's no saving them.

It brings the strangest clarity to their minds.

“We can buy them some time,” she says, watching the approaching Sentinels. There are too many to count – they know how weak she and Pietro are; they're coming for the kill. “I can take them all down, but I'll need you to – ”

“ – contain the blow,” he finishes. She will take the last of her power, free it from the constrains of her soul and let it wreck the world. Unrestrained chaos magic will destroy everything – not only the machines, but Pietro and herself too. But that's alright.

If they're going to die anyway, it might as well be for a good reason.

He looks at her, sadness and determination burning in his blue eyes. One last time. To make sure Shadowcat and Wolverine set things right.

Pietro stands up, holds out his hand and tugs Wanda to her feet. They hold onto each other to stop the shaking, their aching muscles and withering bodies protesting against the strain.

The sky is dark as the Sentinels close in around them, but behind them, as if between the cracks, it lightens.

One last time.

“The sun is coming up.”

She presses her lips to his with bruising force, trying to sear herself into his skin – or him into hers, it doesn't matter, they're both the same – and it's not even a kiss or a lovers' embrace as he crushes their bodies together, as if trying to meld them into one, but a reminder – a promise;

that wherever she goes,

he'll follow.

They let go and he grins – all sharp teeth and unhinged madness, and says, “I'll see you on the other side, sis.”

And he runs.

A wind barrier rises, circling around her and an army of Sentinels, isolating them from the rest of the world. It rises higher and higher, but she can still see the sun when her feet leave the ground and she reaches deep into her soul – grasps at the scarlet flame that sustains her –

The world catches fire.

(Then, moments later: the future reverts.)

 

 

 

 

**5.**

 

The sun warms her face, paints orange patterns beneath her eyelids. She stretches herself on the blanket, shoes kicked off, her thin summer dress a gentle caress against her skin. She threads her fingers through the cool grass and drifts away, the faraway sounds of splashing water and children's laughter lulling her to sleep.

Until something tickles her leg.

She jumps up, her wide-brimmed hat falling from her head.

“Max!” she shrieks and tries to kick him in retaliation, but he catches her foot swiftly and holds it in place. His blue eyes gleam with mischief, as if she's just offered him a great challenge.

His thumb starts massaging slow circles on the bare sole of her foot, and she leans back, her whole body relaxing blissfully. His eyes never leave hers as he continues to make sweeping motions with his thumb, gradually increasing the pressure. A soft, breathless sigh escapes her lips. He grins.

“I love that sound you make,” he says leaning forward, his body brushing against her burning skin. He's still wet and smells of lake water, and his lips are cold when he leans down to kiss her. “I can never get tired of it.”

She doesn't flush or turn away – this time she's allowed this, no one can take it away – because she's not Wanda, and he's not Pietro, and in this very moment they're not running; they're free.

Her name is Elisaveta and she kisses her husband, threads her fingers through his pale hair – it's grown out of his buzzcut, she'll need to cut it in the evening – and allows herself to make that sound again against his parted lips. Her heart swells in her chest, the magic (if there was any at all, she doesn't remember, doesn't want to remember) locked safely away behind walls and walls and walls, high and wide and impenetrable. Hidden from sight. Untouchable.

Someone whistles behind them and he – Max – turns around; taunting words spill from his lips in fluent Serbian. The others laugh. Her grin widens. She feels happy and safe and it surprises her, how much she doesn't want to leave.

“Let's stay here a few more weeks,” she whispers in his ear, her fingers of their own accord searching for his.

His blue eyes turn weary. His fingers tense beneath hers, as if he consciously tries to stop them from moving, then realizes it's no longer necessary. (It breaks her heart.) “We've stayed here long enough. It'd be unwise to test our luck like that.”

She knows that, of course. Wanda and Pietro Maximoff may have died to the world, may have burned to ashes – such poetic justice; went like they were supposed to from the beginning – but still, not everyone believes it. Some are still searching for them.

Charles Xavier.

Wolverine.

Even after all this time.

She knows they should pack their things and leave, look for signs at crossroads, find another kumpania. But her heart feels heavy at the thought of leaving another life behind.

“At least let's wait until the festival,” she pleads, her lips curving into a smile, and she can see his shoulders sag, resolve slipping; he's giving in, unsurprisingly, he could never refuse her anything in the world. She kisses him again, warming his lips. “I know you want to see me dance again.”

They may be hunted, may be chased across the world. But she will not give up this one happiness, this hope they fought so hard to restore.

They're alive. They're together. It's all that matters.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> the universes in order of appearance:  
> 1 - age of ultron  
> 2 - house of m  
> 3 - the ultimates  
> 4 - x-men: days of future past  
> 5 - sometime before house of m OR after the children's crusade OR any other time pietro offered to run away with her
> 
> also: I'M SO SORRY


End file.
